


On this night, in this light (I'm fallingforyou)

by lapoesieestdanslarue



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, M/M, and there are many pining song lyrics, but he's R from the 1832, essentially Grantaire is Matty from the 1975, it's a great time guys you'll love it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-09-28 09:05:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10083776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lapoesieestdanslarue/pseuds/lapoesieestdanslarue
Summary: ‘And tonight of course, is the big one. That’s right ladies and gentlemen, for one night and one night only, The 1832 and their frontman R are back in their hometown to play in Stade de France to a sold out audience.’Grantaire leaves for three years to make music.Enjolras stays in Paris, and listens.Eventually they meet at the common again.





	

**Author's Note:**

> First and foremost, a huge thanks to @achelllies who was not only the other half of the post that started this whole au which you can read [ here!](http://war-boyfriends.tumblr.com/post/150018588439/achelllies-okay-wow-this-is-gigantic-and-its-a) So you have them to thank for the inception of this fic, and for their amazing beta-ing skills.
> 
> Secondly, to the ever lovely Chloe, @softbaz, who did an incredible job of handholding, picking me up and generally being all around fantastic, and another great beta.

_‘And tonight of course, is the big one. That’s right ladies and gentlemen, for one night and one night only, The 1832 are back in their hometown to play in Stade de France to a sold out audience.’_

The radio host blathers on, and Enjolras’s hands tighten on the steering wheel as Courfeyrac squeals beside him.

“I can’t believe it,” he’s saying for the fiftieth time today. “Like, I actually can’t believe it. This is it, we’re actually seeing Grantaire live in fucking Stade de France! What is this?!”

“It’s certainly quite the achievement,” Combeferre says from the backseat, with a fond grin on his face.

Chatter between all their friends rises up, praising R and his band and not believing it!! That this it!! They’re actually seeing R live in fucking Stade de France!!

Enjolras doesn’t join them. He focuses on the throngs of traffic ahead of him instead, the song- R’s song, R’s voice- blaring from the radio, so loud he can feel the echo of the music in his bones, and the multitude of unanswered questions that fly through his head, demanding constant attention. 

//

_Go down_  
_Soft sound_  
_Midnight_

//

_The sun’s starting to set_ , R notes, a dull kind of obviousness that somehow manages to resonates profoundly with him. The sun is sinking, slowly, the dusk gently falling over this little piece of world like a duvet, streaked all over with soft purples and pinks and oranges, and in about half an hour it’ll be almost completely dark and half an hour after that he’ll be on stage, playing to a completely fucking sold out Stade de France.

He thinks, with a panicked sort of fervor, about whether it would be at all possible to _run run run_ to the edge of the world and push the sun back up, bar it from setting for just a few minutes more. 

He’s a joke. One of the most successful bands of 2016 and still anxiety eats at him, curling its icy black tendrils around his throat, ending with him standing backstage and wondering if he’s even gonna be able to open his mouth. He does this for a living - a night when they’re not playing a gig is a rare and coveted wonder - and still. Still he lets his mind take over. 

He couldn’t set the sun back if he had all the strength in the world. He couldn’t banish his own anxiety if he had all the strength in the universe. Xanax, weed - they’re momentary solvents; but there is a part of R that is so deeply broken that nothing chemical can come close to fixing. It’s a part of _him_ , his soul, his being, an imbalance in his very character that no medicine can change. And bringing a therapist on the road would be terribly narcissistic and a cruelty to whatever poor sod had to listen to his moanings.That’s why music helps, he supposes. 

So the sun will still set today, and Grantaire is still broken today, and both of these things are natural fixtures in the universe’s working order, so he better just fucking deal with it. 

_Enjolras probably could, though._ A single glare at the sun would have it cowering back to the west, and he could probably even wrangle his words into something resembling comfort and bring Grantaire out of himself. Hell, even just being there would bring Grantaire out of himself. Looking at the Apollo incarnate is an out of body experience nothing else has been able to replicate. 

_But Enjolras isn’t here, thankfully,_ he reminds himself as he drops his cigarette to the ground and grinds it with the heel of his shoe, watching the last embers fade and die. None of Les Amis are here, in fact. He doesn’t blame them, would almost thank them if it wouldn’t be taken the wrong way, because at least without them the only people left are strangers, who’ll take the soul he bears them and keep it just for them, and he doesn’t have to worry about being judged because they understand, each of them, in their own little way. But they don’t necessarily understand _him_ , and so are lacking pieces of fairly vital context. But Les Amis know _everything_ : they’ll know every little reference, they’ll know who’s who, and when Grantaire thinks of the set tonight, he couldn’t bear to sing _their_ songs back at them.

Christ, he’s getting pretentious.

But it does serve a purpose. Because he doesn’t have a therapist, but he does have his music, and to him they’re one in the same. When he gets on stage, he knows the anxiety will leave, running back to the hell where it came from, even though he might not remember it. When he gets up there, and he has all those faces looking up at him, and he’s telling them his truths - _that,_ that’s the best kind of therapy, better than what any drug or drink could ever do for him. It’s unrestrained, they’ll take whatever he gives them and not question it, he can be wild and they’ll reciprocate, and he doesn’t even have to _pay_ them for the kindness. He would hope it’s be a mutually beneficial thing, but who knows. He might actually be shit on stage. 

The sun’s leaving now, just a sliver on the horizon, and soon, it will be dark. He’s going to be called in to get ready soon, soundcheck done. 

The only person he had offered tickets to was Eponine, because he couldn’t ever hide anything from her, even before he started writing these songs. They grew up together, found their feet while holding onto each other’s hands to split the weight of troubles too heavy to carry alone. He owes her the sun the moon and the stars for everything she does, but a concert will have to do in their place. But she has a work shift she can’t miss in a theatre downtown anyway, so Grantaire is officially friend-free. 

No one had predicted how fast the tickets would sell out. No one thought they _would_. Originally, the set team had planned to cover up half of the arena’s seating, until two hours after opening for sales every single ticket was _gone_ \- which was fucking unbelievable, and R hadn’t stopped smiling for days afterwards. 

Courf had sounded devastated on the phone, and truly, R _was_ sorry. He tried to score them passes, figuring it was the least he could do, but the rest of the band had already swiped them all up with their own friends and family. R knew how much it meant to them, and gave his five up. That was another thing off his shoulders - he only had five. Who knows what kind of drama that would have created in deciding who’d get them?

It was a decency, he told himself, to give them up. It saved Les Amis from perishing at their own hands. 

God, he’s so full of bullshit. 

The sun is gone, and it’s getting chilly. He can hear the murmur of fans waiting to get in at the front entrance. 

Behind him he hears the door being opened and one of the security guards walking forward. 

“R, mate? We need you. Time to get ready.”

The icy tentacles make a reappearance, creeping their way up from his stomach towards his throat.

//

_Car lights_  
_Playing with the air_  
_Breathing in your hair_

//

“Does R even know we’re going? He hasn’t said anything.”

“Nope!” Joly crows excitedly. “Claquesous and Babet planned everything to surprise him. So everyone keep quiet in the group chat, okay?”

“I thought that much was obvious when we agreed that we’d _surprise_ him,” Eponine drawls.

“Oh man, he’s gonna be so _psyched_. I feel like I haven’t seen him in forever.”

“Well the last time was those few weeks at the start of summer before they went on their festival tour, remember? And it’s December now, so that was like. A long time ago.”

Seven months and eight days to be exact, by Enjolras’s calculations, but he doesn’t make a sound.

//

_Go down_  
_Soft sound_

//

People rush past them - sound and light technicians, security guards and miscellaneous staff with a hundred places to be at once - but all Grantaire can do is stand as everyone else moved frantically around him, and listen. Breathe it in.

He could just about see them from where he was standing; the lights and smoke made everything feel vaguely dreamlike, but the sound was deafening. They weren’t screaming yet - instead it was just the symphony of people living in their own little worlds, talking amongst themselves about their days or their lives or whatever. 

They’re waiting for him, for the band, and they have no idea how much he wants to give them a good show, and how terrified he is that he’s going to fail them. 

A bony shoulder nudges his own, and he turns around to see Montparnasse, their infamous drummer and probably his closest friend in the band, if Montparnasse did friends. 

“Stop worrying so loudly.” 

He snorts as he’s handed his ear piece. “You say that every time.”

“Well, you worry every time, so I’ll stop saying it when you stop doing it.”

“What about when it stops being true?”

Montparnasse grins, in that sharp way that he does and it takes the edge off. God bless ‘Parnasse. “Fishing for compliments? Get over yourself, darling. You’re better than that. You know how good you are when you get up there and actually start to sing.”

The lights dim, and darkness falls around the stadium, and _that’s_ when the screaming starts, erupting from the pit like a bolt of lighting, electric and shrill and _alive_. 

Someone starts counting down in his ear and Claquesous, Babet and Montparnasse pass him as they head towards their instruments and the screaming just gets wilder and then-

_“...one, zero. Over to you, R.”_

-he’s walking out onto the stage with his throat squeezed impossibly tight, his anxiety strangling him, and though the stage is still dark some of the spotlights are illuminating the crowd and he can make out the multitude of faces before him. He’d forgotten how big Stade de France was, but Jesus, this seems colossal. 

_He can’t do this, he can’t do this, his mouth is dry as the goddamn Sahara and-_

The music swells up, and he can literally feels its vibrations in his bones, filling up his brain and pushing the other thoughts out. There’s always that amazing, indescribable moment when you feel the connection between you and the notes, the lyrics, and all the details in between, and you _become_ the music.

He opens his mouth, and the words come, and he’s greeted by 81,000 people singing his words back to him. The tentacles start to relent in their seemingly ever-present grip upon his throat, and he can breathe again, can sing. 

The set is all monochrome, and with the bright lights of phone torchlights gazing up at him it’s like he’s floating in space and this is his own little galaxy. 

“ _Go down,_ ” He croons into the microphone, hearing the faint echo of his voice reverberate around the stadium. “ _Soft sound. Step into your skin? I’d rather jump in your bones._ ”

That line always makes him laugh. It’s one of the first things he ever wrote, and it always feels a natural one to start with it. He wrote it when he was eighteen, inspired after meeting Jehan for the first time. That same night was also his first encounter with Enjolras. The first two lines are stolen from a poem Jehan had been reciting at the time; Grantaire was caught unawares by this fae-like person, all dusty freckles and messy plaits, who spoke poetry like a first language and was captivating enough to not sound remotely pretentious about it. He asked Jehan if they’d mind, him using their words in a song, and to his delight they told him that it would be an honor to be plagiarised by him. 

It’s a quiet little song, simply called ‘ _The 1832_ ’, and all it is is R’s voice and two notes on Claquesous’ keyboard.

(“You’ll have to credit me, y’know, when you’re world famous and playing… Oh I don’t know, Madison Square Garden or Stade de France or something,” they had grinned, eight years earlier.)

R had snorted. “Right. Let’s just see if I can even manage to get a gig at the local pub.”

There’s an entire page of their first album’s booklet dedicated to Jehan now, and a sincere thank you message from Grantaire. They cried when they found out.)

“ _Taking up your mouth, so you breathe through your nose._ ”

There’s a beat of silence, there always is, silence and complete darkness where it’s just R, unmasked, standing there and looking down at everyone else, a collective holding of breath...

Then there’s a burst of bright purple lights, and Babet starts the opening riff and the audience goes fucking mental. R gets that boost of adrenaline he needs from it and it powers him up, makes everything suddenly feel electric and tangible and _right there_.

“Stade de France, give it up for my favourite band, The 1832!” he yells to them, and the music washes through the arena. 

The standing people all dance wildly to the rhythm and R joins them, bopping around the stage like he hasn’t done since he was actually _dancing_ , back in that shitty little studio across from the university. Of course, if his dance teacher actually saw him she’d flay him alive - his form is non-existent and he’s doing nothing right or proper - but he’s moving with the music, with a sense of freeness he couldn’t muster under her rules and etiquette. He’d forgotten how much fun dancing can be. 

This song, like all the rest of them, is about Les Amis. But it’s different, because it was written at three in the morning, when R and the guys were playing Coachella. He’d been sitting in the dark in the bus in his underwear scrolling through his Facebook and watching the updates from a protest they were attending - something against LePen, he imagines - and it hit him just how far away from them he was. How, no matter what, he could never dedicate himself to them like he had before, because there’d always be a concert, or an interview, or an album. 

And then he started going back through their Facebook page, looking at old pictures from rallies and fundraisers, and remembered his own experience of it all. If the updates were correct (and knowing Feuilly, they absolutely were), Enjolras hadn’t gotten up to speak yet, so nothing much had happened. They were trying for peaceful, apparently. He had snorted at that. They _always_ tried for peaceful. They had a one in three chance of it actually turning out that way, though.

‘ _I'm just with my friends online and there's things we'd like to change_ ’ he’d written that night with some crappy acoustic guitar while videos with the sound turned off autoplayed on his computer screen. ‘ _Next thing you'll find you're reading 'bout yourself on a plane, fame, what a shame._ ’

“ _You look famous, let's be friends, and portray we possess something important_ ,” He sings. “ _And do the things we like, meaning-_! You sing it, you sing it!” 

He flips the microphone so it’s pointing towards the crowd and they do not disappoint, singing back at him - _to_ him like their lives depend on it. 

“ _We've just come to represent, a decline in the standards of what we accept!_ ”

“How are you feeling tonight, Paris?” he asks, and the cheer in reply is one of the most purely exuberant sounds Grantaire can ever remember hearing, before they’re singing again. “ _And love me, if that’s what you wanna do!_ ”

It’s one of their most upbeat songs, Grantaire will be the first to say it. It not only sounds happy, but if you’re missing the context behind its conception it sounds happy on paper too. And tonight, the audience seem to be especially happy.

//

“He’s amazing!” Jehan squeals over the din of the people below. “Look at him!”

Enjolras is transfixed. There was a way that Grantaire moved, with an effortless grace that had every single person in the stadium with their attention solely on him, sharing his exhilaration and moving _with_ him. When Grantaire used to be a regular at meetings as opposed to a now infrequent haunter of their group chat, he would wax lyrical about Enjolras’ control of an audience. 

But he thinks if he could see himself on stage like this, he’d take it back. Because he’s more awe-inducing than Enjolras could ever hope to be. In fact, if Grantaire could take one of Enjolras’ speeches and turn it into a song, he could get the whole world to listen to him.

_Love Me_ ends, and the lights fade from purple to white and back to a neon pink, and when the bass picks out the next rhythm the crowd goes wild again and Enjolras has to hold himself back from doing the same.

“ _Hey boy stop, pacing ‘round the room using other people’s faces as a mirror for you_ ,” R sings, and Enjolras is reminded that R is still bluntly honest, even in song. And Christ, he can’t bring himself to be anything but admiring of that.

“ _This conversation's not about reciprocation no more, But I'm gon' wait until you finish so I can talk some more._ ”

//

“ _And you’re the only thing that’s going on in my mind, Taking over my life a second time_.” This song is always the easiest to sing, because it’s brand new. He doesn’t even have to scratch the surface of his- soul, or whatever. This song is R. And Enjolras, he supposes, by default. It’s a complete, unforgiving self-portrait of their relationship. 

He wrote it when he was on tour with his first album. The first time he had gone back to the Café Musain, and attended one of Les Amis’ meetings and seen his friends in six months. And then, of course-

“Grantaire, what are you doing here?” the angelic blond asked, right from the podium, before he was interrupted by Jehan screeching in joy as R walked through the doors, flinging themself at him. 

“Thought I’d stop by,” he grinned. He hadn’t needled Enjolras in an age, and any excuse to do so was irresistible. “See how your save-the-world crusade is going. The world’s still shit, I see.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes but didn’t rise to the bait for once, and the next two hours passed in a blur of hugs and drinks and catching up. Grantaire had forgotten just how much he’d missed this. When he was touring, it was easy for him to slip into isolation, the late nights and the dependence on audience energy to even get him on stage. The good thing about being with a band, he supposed, is that they all kind of became this four-part machine during that time. Honestly, if any psychologist wants easy money, they should take a look at the co-dependency between musicians. Grantaire’s sure the results would be equal parts hilarious and sad.

Beside him, someone cleared their throat. He shook himself. “Oh. Hello.”

Enjolras smiled tentatively. “Hello.”

They stood in silence for a few minutes, Grantaire leaning against the bar, waiting for Enjolras to say something, and Enjolras just looking at him, rolling his glass between his fingers. Almost drinking him in, like he couldn’t believe he was in front of him. Eventually, he snapped out of his stupor.

“I- Congratulations. On your tour, and the album and everything.”

Grantaire bowed his head. “Thank you, Enjolras. You don’t need to pretend you’re a fan of the music, though. Not your vibe, I get it.”

The other man bristled. “Well I’m a fan of _you_.”

R snorted into his beer. “Yeah, right.”

“What?” Enjolras asked, instantly heated. “Why is it that you’re so fixated on dismissing everything that comes out of my mouth?”

“Because!” Grantaire had exclaimed, and he could feel himself slipping into their old argument like a good jacket. “Everything that comes out of your mouth is cannon fodder. You don’t say anything without intent- even if that intent is as naive as thinking you can save the world, or just trying to get me to believe in something as minimal as you believing in _me_. But I won’t because I know you, I’m the only one who can see past your grandeur, and that terrifies you. You run after me because you can’t handle defiance, skepticism, and if you can convince me, you can do anything, right?”

“ _No_!”

“Say what you want. But this - arguing, debating, whatever you want to call it - it’s a fixed thing. Like the way the sun will set tonight and rise tomorrow, or the tide will come in, I will never bend to naivety, and you will never convince me otherwise.”

“Christ, I just wanted to-”

“To what? Congratulate me, then ask for some promotion? Ask if we’d do a charity gig?”

“I wanted to ask if you meant what you said.”

That knocks all the air out of Grantaire’s lungs. He chugs the dregs of his beer and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, before swallowing. “And what the fuck does it matter to you?” Goddamn, Enjolras infuriates him. He doesn’t give him a chance to respond, just slams his now empty bottle onto the table. “Tell you what- you take a listen to the album and answer that for yourself, hm?”

“R, don’t-”

“I’ll see you around, Apollo.”

He remembers walking out of the bar, the thrumming of his heart in his chest, his mind condemning him for being the utter idiot he is because what was he _thinking_ , showing up there again? As if his massive thing for Enjolras had just disappeared.

He walked down the dirty side streets of Paris to Ep’s apartment where he was staying, a song already unfolding in his head.

//

**@aRtist**

Life is too short to cry over bad coffee and boys who don’t care.

**17th June, 2015**

**_1,014 retweets 2053 likes_ **

//

‘ _UGH!’_ finishes with the usual screams and shouts, and this carries on into the opening lines of ‘ _Heart Out’_. Grantaire has a guitar in his hands for this song, which is nice. It’s an anchor, of sorts. It’s good to have that burn on his fingertips as he plucks out the rhythm line. 

It’s from their first album, self-titled, which is pretty much just an autobiography of his years as a stoned teenager with Eponine, through meeting Les Amis and his short-lived time in university. But ‘ _Heart Out_ ’ is special - it was written the night that Grantaire attended his first Les Amis de l’ABC meeting, and by default his first brush with Enjolras’ unwavering optimism. If he had known how much pain he’d put upon himself because of that man he probably would have walked right out the dorm and gone back to his own: hell, maybe he would have even _studied_. But he stayed, and became entwined in the motley crew of friends from that day forward. 

“ _'Cause I remember when I found you, much younger than you are now. And once we started having friends round, you created a television of your mouth._ ” 

 

“Hi,” Enjolras had greeted him, holding out his hand with his lips pressed into an impossibly tight line for someone holding a half-empty beer. “A friend of Courfeyrac’s?”

Grantaire had shrugged, an easy smile tugging at his lips. “A friend of a friend.”

“Pleasure to meet you.”

“Believe me, Apollo, the pleasure is all mine.”

“ _What_ did you just call me?” And in a second he’d gone from stiffly polite to brimming with irritation, borderline anger, and Grantaire had just chuckled, and brought his own beer up to his lips. 

 

The audience are going properly mental now, thrashing in their places to the beat, and Grantaire stamps his foot in time with them, a smile overpowering his face at their reaction. 

“ _She said, "It's nice to have your friends round. We're watching the television with no sound_ ,” he sings into the microphone. “ _It’s just you and I, tonight. Why don’t you figure my heart out?_ ”

It ends with a deafening chorus from the crowd, followed by the lights dimming. They want to give the people here the best night of their lives so they’ve stuffed in as many songs as they possibly could. The downside of this is that there’s little to no time to interact with the audience, but Grantaire fought with the tour manager a bit on that until he relented and gave them a few pockets of time to actually talk to the fans. 

It also serves as a well deserved break. They can take a second to take a drink of water - or wine - and Grantaire can grab his towel and wipe some of the sweat from his brow.

“I’ve always wanted to say this,” He says, breathless into the microphone. “Good evening, Stade de France.” The audience erupts at that and Grantaire can’t help but smile and bow a little, clutching his chest. Paris has always been their biggest fanbase, at least it feels like that, and it’s incredible to think that a good few of the people here are the same people who were watching them play tiny theatres in alleys, when they were nothing. 

It’s different though, considerably so, and it tugs at his heart. Because these people are fan of the music the 1832 produce, and that means the world. But there’s no Eponine in the back of the room screaming manically, there’s no Jehan getting up in the middle of their set to recite poetry, there’s no Bahorel serving drinks at the bar if they played the Corinthe. It’s the same love, but different people. It’s the same songs, but a different audience. 

“We’ve played Paris a lot, of course. This is where we started, where we found our feet and where a lot of our songs are based. But this is the only night we’ve ever sold out- and Stade de France, no fucking less, so thank you for that.” The cacophony of screams that goes up is heart-warming, but that could be the sentiment or the fact that Grantaire is waving up into the nosebleed seats, all the way at the top.

He’s grabbed the microphone, now, and he’s ambling around the stage. “When I lived in Paris, I lived with my best friend, Eponine. We went to university together before I dropped out, and we fell in with this bunch of people. They were just the most eclectic group you will ever meet, I kid you not. There were bartenders, poets, politicians, doctors, actors, even lawyers in this one group. But we were the tightest-knit group. They met every Monday and Friday in this little bar not far from the university, and talked about how they were going to change the world. They organised protests, speeches, that kind of public awareness stuff. The leader was incredible, all fiery passion. He’s the kind of guy that would get you interested just reading the phonebook, you know? 

“Anyways, I never believed much in that stuff, too cynical for my own good. But I used to sit in the back of the bar and listen. Maybe I’d be writing, maybe I’d be drawing, whatever it was. But I’d be doing that while listening to these impassioned speeches going on. I remember coming back on a Friday- literally the day we finished recording our very first album- and I had my wine and my cigarettes. I was sitting there, and they were still trying to fix the world, and I remember thinking- ‘Everything’s the same. Nothing has changed. It’s the same group of people, talking about the same issues that were still issues five, six months ago. But it’s different, because now I have an album. It’s different, because _I’m_ different.”

The entire stadium is completely quiet. He’s got everyone’s attention, they’re sitting in the palm of his hand. 

“I had to leave then, a few weeks later, promoting the album and stuff. I didn’t get back until the start of this summer, when I was just stopping by for a few weeks before we hit the road again. I sat in the back, like I always do, and I had my wine and my cigarettes, like I always do, and I had an album out. But it was still different. There were new issues to discuss, but there were the same people. And I didn’t just have one album out, now I had _two_. It kinda broke my heart, because I felt like I was on a train that was moving impossibly fast, and I was happy to be on that train, but one part of me just wanted to go back to that first station. So I did what I always do, and I wrote a song about it. This is a ‘ _A change of heart_ ’.”

//

Enjolras’s heart is in his throat. He doesn’t understand why everyone is screaming and clapping happily because this is one of the saddest songs R’s ever written. And it’s his fault. 

“ _For goodness sake, I wasn't told you'd be this cold. Now it's my time to depart, and I just had a change of heart,_ ” Grantaire’s singing, and it’s breaking Enjolras’s heart. 

He looks across at Courfeyrac and the others, all smiling and singing along happily, and he wants to shake them, wants to make them see that this is _sad_ , that R isn’t coming back to them, not properly, not fully. 

Enjolras wishes he could run on stage, stop the song and apologise so R wouldn’t have to sing it, and can’t they see it’s hurting him?! The juncture between Grantaire’s eyebrows are creased and his eyes are closed, but emotions play out on his face in time with the words. But maybe that’s the just the memory of him, and maybe all he’ll ever be able to give him are sad songs. 

“ _You used to have a face straight out of a magazine, now you just look like anyone. I just had a change of heart_ ,” Bahorel crows beside him. 

Enjolras remembers when the music video for this song came out, and the groupchat hadn’t shut up about it for days. He hadn’t heard a word from or about Grantaire until the Change of the Heart video comes out. Grantaire was dressed in clown makeup, and it was black and white. It seemed so happy, until the end when he’s left alone in the rain without anyone else to turn to.

And Enjolras knew what it meant. The other’s would accuse him of being horribly self-centred if he ever told them what he suspected, but he remembers that night, he remembers Grantaire, stone cold sober, confessing everything to him. 

The song might be about Grantaire losing what he feels are his friends or his origins, but the video is about Enjolras and Enjolras alone. 

(“I feel like I’m not me,” He’d whispered in the dark of Enjolras’s bedroom. “Like I’m just painting a face on and living a shadow of a life.”)

He has a clown face painted in the video, trying to pretend to be someone he’s not.

(“But maybe I can forget you that way,” He’d said seconds later. Enjolras hadn’t known what to say, so he just gripped him tighter.)

But at the end of the video, he’s all alone. All those people who claimed to love him have left him.

(“But none of them were you, Apollo. So then I have to ask myself if I was ever really loving them back, and I’m just left increasingly frustrated with myself.”)

“ _I feel as though I was deceived, I never found love in the city, I just sat in self-pity and cried in the car. Oh, I just had a change of heart._ ”

More poignantly, Enjolras remembers the first time Grantaire really came back, for those few weeks in summer. R was different that time. He’d really just changed, Enjolras supposes. He didn’t yell anymore drunken disagreements and he wouldn’t meet Enjolras’s eyes. He still kept to his bottle, but he left as soon as the meetings are over. After three weeks of this going on, he stopped coming altogether, and pretty much cut off all contact with the Amis, save for an apology that he supposedly couldn’t get them tickets to tonight’s gig.

“ _She said, "I've been so worried 'bout you lately. You were fit but you're losing it. You played a part, this is how it starts." Oh, I just had a change of heart._ ”

Everyone is singing along like their lives depend on it, and Enjolras is frozen where he’s stood, watching as R dances across the stage and wishing he could fix everything he broke between them.

//

Grantaire takes a second to breathe as _’An Encounter’_ plays itself out. He turns and grabs one of the guitars where it’s propped up, waiting for him. When he looks back, he’s staring into the faces of 81,000 people, and they’re looking back up at him. They know what’s coming next and the tension is building in the room. It’s the song that made them, the first taste they’d ever gotten of success when it was released. 

But it’s also the song that destroys him. Every single time he plays it his old wounds open a new, raw and red and bleeding the remnants of that day. 

_‘An Encounter’_ ends with a crescendo that leads right into the opening of _‘Robbers’_ , and the crowd goes wild. 

“ _She had a face straight out a magazine_ ,” He sings, and they sing it back, every one of them, it sounds like. “ _God only knows but you'll never leave her. Her balaclava is starting to chafe. And when she gets his gun he's begging, "Babe, stay, stay, stay, stay, stay."”_

//

The last time R saw Les Amis before the first album, it was at a protest.

It went about as well as you could expect.

//

**3 years ago**

//

_“I'll give you one more time, we'll give you one more fight, said one more lie, will I know you?”_

//

It’s loud. 

That’s the one thing Grantaire can register through the almighty ringing in his head, trying to regain his balance after some bastard pushed him into a billard. 

He can’t for the life of him remember what exactly they’re protesting. Probably something LGBTQ+ thing if it’s sparking this much of an opposing fight. 

“..taire? _Grantaire_! Are you alright?”

He looks up to see an avenging angel looking down on him, bloody and beaten but strong and beautiful still. It’s Enjolras, he realises after a few seconds, not an angel, but really, what’s the difference? His golden curls are plastered to the side of his head with blood, and there’s a nasty gash on his lip. 

“What the fuck happened to you?” He croaks. 

Enjolras grins, wild and untamed with bloody teeth that would make any man cower before him. In this moment, he truly doesn’t look human, he looks… 

He looks dangerous. Like he’d kiss you and then shoot you for the cause. He looks like a god angered, antonious wild, like the fire that burns within him has turned in on himself.

“Bigots,” He answers simply.

//

_“You've got a pretty kind of dirty face, and when she's leaving your home she's begging you, "Stay, stay, stay, stay, stay."”_

//

Slowly, as if he’s moving through molasses, Grantaire makes his way up, steadying himself on Enjolras’s shoulder. 

“We’ve got to get out of here,” He says. “Seriously, Enjolras, you’ve lost way too much blood-”

“Head wounds always look worse than they are-”

“Fucks sake! You want to go back in there? Risk your life again? Are you an idiot?”

“ _Hey! Break it up!_ ”

Grantaire sighs as a police officer approaches, wielding his baton. “No, we’re friends, we’re not fighting-”

“What kind of police work do you call this?” Enjolras spits. “You have a duty to protect the the people of your country, regardless of race or identity, and instead you're here hurting innocent people!”

Grantaire swears, in that millisecond, he sees the man’s eyes turn from pissed off to pure, unfiltered _fury_.

//

“ _Well now that you’ve got your gun, it's much harder now the police have come. Now I'll shoot him if it's what you ask, but if you just take off your mask, you'd find out everything's gone wrong._ ”

//

Most reasonable police officers would have arrested them then and there. 

This one was a rare gem that placed violence above all else, which was something Grantaire came to realise as he saw him raise his baton above his head, aiming for a blow. 

There’s a saying that when you’re in a car wreck, or about to be in one, everything goes into slow motion. That’s what happened at that moment, everything went silent, and time seemed to stop.

He watched, helpless, as the baton came down and thwacked Enjolras’s back with a deafening thud. He yelped in pain, and something in Grantaire’s heart snapped at that, the most painful sound he’d ever heard.

Grantaire had enough time to think this, and then grab Enjolras by the hand and wrench him away from the situation, running helter skelter down the road. The policeman behind them let out a growl and followed suit, but when Grantaire takes a sharp left down an alley, he relents.

At least, that’s what he assumes, after countless times of replaying the events of that day. But at the time, he was running on sheer adrenaline and didn’t stop for one second, not until they got to his apartment complex.

They came running to a standstill in front of the red brick building, panting and breathless, bent down with their hands on their knees. No one pays them any mind as they pass them by, not caring about the boy with a black eye and blood covering the left side of his face. Paris continues without them, and if Grantaire strains his ears, he can still hear the shouts of the people at the protest. 

“Thanks,” Enjolras huffed.

Grantaire shook his head. “We’re not done yet. Come inside, I’ll patch you up.” He leveled Enjolras with a look, silencing any opposition the other man had. “You’re not leaving my sight until most of your blood is back inside your body. C’mon.”

//

“ _I'll give you one more time, we'll give you one more fight. Said one more line, be a riot, cause I know you._ ”

//

Grantaire is in love with Enjolras. Grantaire _was_ in love Enjolras, especially on that day, but. It’s all the same really, just a multitude of feelings that run themselves ragged around his mind. It’s a fact of life for him, now. He loves Enjolras, there are 365 days in a year, the sun rises in the east, Enjolras will never love him back.

It’s simple like this, easy.

And he _knows_ it’s bad. He knows that he’s a shit human being for being so blatantly hung up on someone who doesn’t love him back. But in Grantaire’s defense, he never asked anything of Enjolras. He knew what he was getting into the minute that warmth started to bloom in his chest when he walked into meetings.

He gives, and he takes, but he keeps it to himself and if Enjolras has an issue with it then that is his prerogative. He understands this, and he understands that his love is so full and unconditional, it’s on the brink of being obsessional. But once he keeps it to himself- and these 81,000 people he’s sharing it with- where’s the harm? Besides, Enjolras doesn’t even listen to his music, so he’s probably blissfully unaware that Grantaire still hasn’t been cured of his unfortunate affection for the blonde haired leader in red. 

It doesn’t stop the hurt, though. 

//

“ _Now everybody’s dead, and they’re driving past my old school,_ ” They sing, and it’s one of the most beautiful sounds Grantaire has ever heard. “ _Babe, you look so cool._ ”

“Thank you, Paris,” He says. “You sound fucking gorgeous. This is the biggest thing we’ve ever done.” He breaks to take a swig of wine. “And we wanted to play some songs for you, the people who mean that we can be here. So we’re gonna go deep, and quiet maybe. This is a song about loving someone who doesn’t love you back.” He can’t help but laugh when he looks over at Babet who’s rolling his eyes, like _‘that’s all our songs, asshole.’_ “Story of my fucking life.”

That provokes raucous applause from the audience, and that’s when Grantaire feels truly at home amongst these people. ‘ _Undo_ ’ is the name of another one of their songs, and one that they rarely play. It’s coveted between them now, between R and the fans, because it’s a song that still hits too close to home in some places for him. And it’s like they know that it hurts him still, so they’re going absolutely batshit crazy to alleviate the pain. It’s the second last song he ever wrote for their first album, and it was written and recorded in one night.

He huffs a chuckle, and plucks out the opening riff, before the guys join him, and before he knows it, he’s singing again.

//

Enjolras knows what’s coming the minute he says it. 

He feels the blood drain from his face, and someone notices (at last) because there’s a warm hand on his shoulder and Combeferre’s low voice in his ear. “Enjolras, are you okay?”

“I’m sorry,” He says, numb as the chords begin to reverberate off the stadium walls.

Combeferre tells him it’s okay, that they can step outside and get some air if they want to. 

Enjolras shakes his head, but ‘Ferre drags him by the hand anyways. He tries to tell him he wasn’t apologising to him, he was apologising to R, but the words don’t seem to work anymore.

//

**3 years ago**

//

Enjolras recoils and hisses as R dabs antiseptic onto the cut above his eyebrow. He never thought he’d live to see the day when he would be genuinely grateful for Joly’s insistence they all do a first aid course, but here he is, remembering everything he was thought about cleaning wounds and effective bandaging. 

“Stay still,” He commands, placing a hand on the back of Enjolras’s head to stop him from moving.

Enjolras huffs but complies anyways, staying silent and still as Grantaire works methodically. His eyes are burning holes into the side of R’s head, tracking every movement, and he’s struggling not to be crushed under the weight of such a stare.

“You said you wouldn’t come.” His voice is husky, rough from hours of shouting.

Grantaire nods. He swallows. “Yeah.”

“But you did.” Enjolras’s eyes narrow, assessing.

He ducks his head. “Yeah.”

“You said it would be completely useless.”

That startles a laugh out of Grantaire, and Enjolras’s facial expression melts into a glare. “What?”

Grantaire pulls back, not quite managing to tame his mouth into a straight line. “Well, it, you know. _Was_ completely useless.”

Enjolras yanks himself back, like he’s been shot. “How can you say that? You were _there_! Why are you so intent on seeing the bad in everything?”

“That’s not true,” He defends. “I’m a realist, I only see the bad in _bad situations_. I don’t know if you’re living in some kind of revolutionary dream world, but for my money a violent protest that ends up with you losing nearly a pint of blood doesn’t constitute a good time. I know you might still have your rich-kid mindset firmly intact, but in this world, nothing magically fixes itself.”

He sighs as the other man scowls and twists away from him. “It’s a pipe dream, Enjolras. Christ, you’re such a hypocrite. You can call me a cynic all you want, but you have to admit that you’re a hopeless optimist. You see nothing but your own damn vision.”

“Of course you would think that,” Enjolras says bitterly. “Of course you wouldn’t care about spreading the message, about the solidarity we were showing the people we’re fighting for. No, you care only about yourself, and your goddamn drink, and that’s where it ends for you, isn’t it?”

“That’s not true,” He says lowly.

“You believe in nothing!” Enjolras explodes. “Not in humanity, not in the cause, not even in yourself!”

“I believe in you.”

It’s a quiet truth, one that sits heavy on his chest and wraps its way around his neck, hanging there like a rosary. But this is a faith better than any church will give you, this is real, this is tangible and this is right in front of him. 

It seems to get lost on Enjolras, as he steamrolls right ahead as if Grantaire hasn’t just told him his only faith. 

“What’s belief without care?”

Grantaire lets out an exasperated breath and runs a hand through his hair. “I care about _you_ ,” He says. It’s half prayer, half damnation. 

Enjolras freezes, breathing ragged and Grantaire hadn’t realised they were close enough to feel the puffs of air from his nose on his mouth. “You’re lying.” It sounds like a rebuttal, but Grantaire hears something underneath it- maybe an invitation.

He shakes his head. “Not about this.” His eyes drop to Enjolras’s lips and he licks them, almost obscene, and before he can help himself he’s ducking down and pressing his lips against Enjolras. 

He feels like he’s floating when Enjolras sighs into his mouth, licking into his mouth and then tangling his hands in his curls.

//

He can’t escape the fucking music. 

Combeferre’s lead him to the bathroom, but they must have speakers there or else R is just really loud because he can still _hear_ it.

“ _Twist around the lounge. Sun drowns the house. Stick another pill in my head and go to bed. ‘We're not doing it again so leave it’._ ” He sings. “ _I didn’t even see when I liked you, now I ain’t got no time._ ”

 

Enjolras takes a deep breath, knuckles white as they grip the sink and rests his forehead against the cool glass of the mirror. He screws his eyes tight as possible and tries to forget the feeling of R’s lips against his.

“ _I want to see you undo it, I want to see you but you’re not mine._ ”

//

When Enjolras envelopes his mouth in a hungry kiss, Grantaire goes easily, melting against his lips like ice cream in a microwave.

His chest is on the brink of exploding, he can’t get enough air in his lungs and it’s so good, it’s so so good, it’s the best feeling in the entire world. His fingers grip Enjolras’s hip, hard enough to bruise (but maybe that was the point) and their hands are roaming, both of them possessed with a need like no other to touch every part of the other. After what seems like forever he wraps his arms around Enjolras’s waist, heaving him closer until he’s sitting on his lap, and Grantaire tries not to grin when he feels how hard he is. 

He detaches his mouth from Enjolras’s to track kisses down his jaw to his neck, and the breathless sighs Enjolras makes as he does so are so beautifully musical he wants to use them for a hook for a song. 

“Grantaire. _R_.”

“Mm?” He asks, looking up at him, lips buzzing and mind foggy. There’s a space of a few seconds of quiet as Enjolras breaths when anxiety siezes at him, worried that he will have completely regretted it but then-

“Bed. Now,” He says, raggedly. 

Grantaire grins against his neck and ducks to nip at his collar bone and hefts him up, racing into his bedroom at light speed.  
Kissing Enjolras on a bed is vastly different to kissing Enjolras on a couch. For one thing, he’s got his legs tangled with Grantaire’s and each rise and fall of their chests are perfectly in sync. In the darkness of his bedroom Enjolras gives up any ghost of having a shred of control. He dissolves underneath Grantaire’s hands and mouth, until he’s a wreck with blood bruises everywhere, stopping abruptly at his jeans. He growls and sits up, practically snarling the words “Off, R. Take your goddamn clothes _off_.”

“Why are you still so bossy?” He grumbles as he undoes his belt, chucking his jeans and shirt on the floor, in a pile with Enjolras’s.

“I want you,” Enjolras breathes. “Right now.”

The fact that Grantaire felt like he was ascending to heaven in that moment, kissing Enjolras senseless, should have been his first clue that his fall was going to be less than pleasant.

 

Afterwards, they’re tangled together and breathless and they spend passing moments speaking in hushed tones. As if anything louder would disturb the peace, would disrupt the brief parallel universe they’ve constructed for themselves, where Grantaire and Enjolras use their words not for fighting but for sweet nothings into each other’s ears. Where their mouths are used to cherish, to soothe, not to hurt. 

Deep in the facets of Grantaire’s mind a song is unwinding itself, unravelling like a single piece of twine from a ball of it with each stroke of Enjolras’s hair.

They speak to each other like a tree breathing through its spectacles, revealing bits and pieces of themselves few others rarely get to see. 

“R,” He says quietly. Grantaire tenses, knowing what’s about to come. 

“It’s okay,” Grantaire murmurs. “I know you don’t love me.”

Enjolras is pulled taught, like a bolt of electricity has run straight through him. He turns to face R, agonisingly slowly. 

“You love me?”

Suddenly, without warning, Grantaire snaps under the weight of his heavy heart and Enjolras’s obliviousness. “Of course I fucking love you, you _idiot_. Why the hell do you think I do all this shit for you? Go to your protests, design your posters? Sleep with you? Kiss you? Tell you everything that I just did? Because I’d head over heels for you, and you’re the only person who doesn’t _fucking_ know!”

He thinks about a song he’s written, one of the one on his shitty, self-produced EP. “ _You opiate this hazy head of mine_ ,” He’d sung. 

He wonders if Enjolras ever listened to it. He wonders if he likes it. He dismisses the thoughts, because he’s fairly certain Enjolras wouldn’t like it.

“R… You don’t _love_ me.”

It hits Grantaire like a slap in the face and a punch in the gut, but one hundred times more. Grantaire can’t remember feeling a pain like it, and he doesn’t think he ever will again. It feels like his entire chest is compacting in on itself, and he’s drowning under the weight of it.

“What the fuck do you think I’m playing at? Of course I do!” He spits. 

“Well can you blame me for being a bit skeptical?” Enjolras shoots back. “You put me down and then tell me you _love_ me? You oppose me! I can’t get a word in edgeways without you listing every fault under the sun with whatever it is. You honestly expect me to believe that the same man that humiliates me relentlessly is madly in love with me?” He’s looking wild with his hair mussed and lips swollen and eyes ablaze. 

He takes it in for a second. 

“Fuck you,” He says. It’s probably the most pathetic he’s ever sounded, and that’s saying something. It’s not fair that he has to love the same man who tramples all over his feelings without a second thought. He jumps out of the bed with speed and grace he didn’t quite realise he had, and shoves on his clothes.

“R, wait. We can talk about this-”

“You can let yourself out.”

Enjolras watches him from the bed, bare chested, as Grantaire let out an infuriated growl and storms out. He wretches it closed, and the slam of it him sets off the avalanche in his chest and with his head pressed against the cool wood of his front door, his heart finally breaks. 

He wipes the traitorous tear from his eye angrily and turns around, making his way down the stairs. His fingers itch at his sides as chords and melody lines unwind in his head, and he doesn’t realise where he’s lead himself until he’s sitting in the studio booth with with his guitar.

Grantaire writes a lot of songs that night. ‘ _Undo_ ’ is one of many of them. ‘ _Haunt//Bed_ ’ comes to him last, but easily, at three in the morning with enough wine on his lips that he can just about drown out the taste of Enjolras.

“ _Well fuck me if you must then, treat me like an old friend_ ,” He’d sang, unaccompanied at first. By the time he gets to the hook, Babet is plucking out the baseline and Claqesous is doing wonders on his keyboard. “ _I can't exist within my own head, so I insist on haunting your bed._ ”

It’s not too hard to sing. His sadness, his heartbreak, has been dulled down to an anger simmering ever so slightly beneath his skin- But maybe that’s the wine. “ _If you could only hear what I said- You'd see. I'm not scared, I’m not scared._ ”

The song ends. Quietly, Babet clears his throat. “You alright?”

“Fine.”

“It’s a good song, mate.”

“Thanks.” He looks up, stares at the guitar in his hands.

With that, Jean Valjean- Cosette dad, and the studio owner- knocks on the glass from the mixing room. “Tell me you recorded that.”

Grantaire nods, and Valjean types something out on his phone. “I’m sending that to Madeline. Congratulations, boys. You have yourselves a full length album.”

The whoops and cheers that erupt from the others are enough to crack a smile out of Grantaire, and he ends up in a group hug with a grin wide as a mile on his face. 

He hadn’t realised, of course, that it would be the last time he would ever see Enjolras for three years. 

//

“ _Girl, I want to see you undo it. I want to see you but you’re not mine,_ ” He belts out. “ _I want to see you but you’re not mine._ ”

It’s not like R hasn’t tried his very best for the past three years to _stop_ loving Enjolras. But love like that can’t simply be thrown away.

That day was a startling realisation of how deep in he was. He remembers that night, returning home and seeing the bed still rumpled, but empty. He remembers the shock that came with the a sudden realization that things will never be the same. There was no going back. He fucked that up royally, he thinks. He solidified their relationship out of necessity rather than emotion. 

That being said, if he had the chance to live that moment again, he’s not entirely sure he wouldn’t do it again. 

From the time the song ended to now, when he’s looking out at the crowd and phone lights that stare up at him as he swings his legs off the edge of the stage where he’s sitting. “Can everyone see me okay?” He asks, and the screams he receives are answer enough. 

“Thank you again for being here. Thanks for listening. That song’s fucking hard to sing, isn’t it? I don’t know why I made it all complicated and jumpy like that. Probably because the person I wrote it about is a fucking pain. I’m a firm believer that art imitates life.” 

_“I LOVE YOU, R!”_ Someone screeches. There was a time when he would have shook his head and told them no, they love the idea and it’s nothing near the actual thing. That if they actually knew him, they’d hate him. 

Now, he smiles humbly and looks over in the general direction it came from. “I love you too. Thanks mom,” He quips. He floods with… a concoction of everything as 81,000 laugh at his shit joke and Montparnasse bangs out a sting on his drums the _’ba dum tsh!’_ echoing throughout the stadium. “That girl isn’t actually my mother, by the way. I paid her like ten euro before we came here.”

“On the subject of love, though,” He says, the smile slowly dropping from his face. “I think it’s the singular most intense emotion we have as humans. It connects us in a way nothing else will, and true love never really leaves you. Most of these songs are written about _one_ person. That’s mad. Two best selling albums and they’re about one guy. Who didn’t even reciprocate, I should add. But music is my only divinity, it’s my excuse, my apology. It’s everything for my behaviour. And I do use it as a shameless reason to figure my shit out, but I think maybe that’s why it resonates so hard with you. Because if there’s nothing to figure out, what’s the point? Where’s the emotion? 

“This _means_ something to you. It means something to me, too. I’m not going to apologize for embracing this intense emotional investment that I get from you. Because — Because it’s a big deal. For the both of us. I loved this guy in a way words fail to encompass. It wasn’t a dreamy, fairytale kind of love. It left me with a broken heart. And what we have right here? It’s a facet of that. It’s so raw and undiluted. It’s _painful_.”

The voice in his ear piece is telling him that it’s time for _‘Me’_ now, and he gets back up. “I’m going to sing a song now about that pain born of love that words can’t manage. And maybe you’ve felt it, maybe you’ve been lucky enough not to. Either way, we can sing it and think about it together.”

//

“ _I gave you something you can never give back, don’t you mind?_ ” R’s voice drifts gently from the speakers and it feels like Enjolras’s heart is compacting on top of itself. “ _You see my face like a heart attack, don’t you mind?_ ”

“Enjolras,” Combeferre says with his infinite calm. “You need to tell me what happened. What’s wrong?”

He takes a steadying, shaky breath. “I just, I- R loves me. _Grantaire_ loves me. Did you know that?”

Combeferre’s face slips out of its neutral mask into something resembling pity. His hand reaches towards Enjolras’s shoulder, but Enjolras takes a step back. 

“You knew.”

“Not exactly-”

“You knew and you didn’t tell me!” He accuses. 

“Well it’s not like Grantaire made any effort to hide it.” The words hit Enjolras in the stomach, but they’re not sharp nor snapped, they’re just factual. And _hurtful_.

“He what?” Any momentary anger drains from Enjolras almost as soon as it came, and he takes another step back to lean against one of the sinks. 

“Enjolras.” Combeferre walks towards him and he doesn’t shrug off the hand he puts on his shoulder this time. “He dropped everything in a heartbeat for you come rain, hail or shine. Did you honestly never notice the way he looked at you? The way he talked to you when he wasn’t trying to contradict you?”

The truth was he _did_. He remembers the stares from across the Musain, the way Grantaire’s voice would drop quietly, almost unsure when he was sober and initiating some inane conversation. But Enjolras, it appears, is an absolute idiot and never put any weight to it.

He sighs and scrubs his face. “I fucked up Ferre. He told me he loved me. The day of the social welfare march, the day before he left. I thought he was just winding me up after the rally but he meant it and I told him he didn’t, _how could I_? Fucking fuck fuck.”

“ _Oh I was thinking ‘bout killing myself, don’t you mind? Don’t you mind? I told you I loved you, don’t you mind? Don’t you mind?”_

“It’s alright,” Combeferre soothes. “You shouldn’t have said that to him, yes. It was deeply hurtful, and you know that you don’t get to decide what other people feel. But you’re under no obligation to like him back, and I can understand that that may have been a shock for you to hear, but- What?” He stops when he sees Enjolras duck his face, hiding his blush from the other man’s scrutinized gaze.

“I...I mean, I wouldn’t go as far to say that I didn’t like him back,” Enjolras says carefully.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Enjolras!” 

“What?!”

“This is so typical of you and R, can’t you just do something _normally_ for once without all this palava? Christ, it takes R releasing two platinum albums and three years for you to realise you have an inkling of feeling for him?” Combeferre pinches the bridge of his nose. “Enjolras, please tell me you understand how _easily_ this could have been resolved minus all this horrific angst had you checked your ego for one second?”

Enjolras clenches jaw and he still won’t meet ‘Ferre’s eyes but he does have the decency to grumble a “Yes.”

“Good, I’m glad. Because we’re going to get back out there when you’re ready and we’re going to enjoy this concert and celebrate the success of our friend, and then you’re going to go backstage and fix all of this.” Combeferre makes a wild gesture, the type that only does when he’s really frustrated and Enjolras nods reluctantly. 

“He never talks to us anymore, though,” He says quietly, and Combeferre sags, sighing. 

“Can you blame him, Enj? The man he loved rejected him with all the tact of a dead piece of wood.”

Enjolras bends his head, flushing in guilt.

“Hey,” Combeferre says gently. “It’s alright. Come on, we’re going to go back out, enjoy the concert and then you and R can kiss and makeup. Hopefully, literally. I don’t know if I can handle the unresolved sexual tension a second time around. Or my wallet, for that matter.”

“You’re just as bad as Courfeyrac,” He scowls, pushing up off the sink to follow Combeferre outside, as the opening notes to ‘ _Somebody else_ ’. “Wait. Did you take _bets_ on us?”

//

**The 1832’s frontman, R, takes you inside his most personal songs**

**Artical uploaded: 3 months ago**

**NME:** What, in your opinion, is the saddest song on the album?

**R:** Um… Well I mean, _‘Somebody else’_ is about… Not necessarily unrequited love, or even jealousy over someone getting into another relationship, but it is about the breakdown of a relationship between two people, with a lack of closure for- well, me, I guess- and the frustration that brings. Doesn’t get much sadder than that, I reckon. 

**NME:** So the song is about an ex you haven’t gotten over?

**R:** No, not all. Well, kind of. Basically, I loved this guy, he didn’t reciprocate- like, _at all_. So when we were on tour with our first album there was this frustration I felt. Because I could recognise that, objectively, I’d just have to pick myself up off the floor and get over him, but I didn’t want to because there was this absence of an ending to it. It had just kind of dissipated, and I think that’s worse than some big blow-out fight any day.  
**NME:** So were you writing it from a place of wanting to condemn your unrequited love?

**R:** No, not at all. I think unrequited love is the kindest love of all. I may not like it, but I can appreciate it. 

**NME:** What do you mean by that?

**R:** I mean, it’s a completely selfless choice. You’re choosing to love someone despite the fact that they don’t feel the same way about you. You are loving despite everything because you know that no matter how hard you try, sometimes love just can’t be reciprocated. Look at the end of the day, unrequited love is _supposed_ to be painful, but that doesn’t mean it’s wrong. 

**NME:** You must have really loved him, then, if you could write a whole song about him.

**R:** [He laughs] Mate, I’ve written two fucking albums for him.

//

_“I took all my things that make sounds, the rest I could do without,_ ” The crowd belts out, each of them singing Grantaire’s words back to him with their own truths. 

“ _I don't want your body, but I hate to think about you with somebody else. Our love has gone cold, you're intertwining your soul with somebody else. And every time I start to believe in anything you’re saying I’m reminded that I should be getting over it._ ” 

“Stade de France, let’s dance,” He says with a grin, allaying the melancholy of the song. “ _Got someone you love? Got someone you need? Fuck that! Get money!_ Sing it with me!”

“ _I can't give you my soul, ‘Cause we're never alone!_ ” 

They end triumphantly, singing their hearts out victoriously as if no broken love could stop them.

It’s a nice feeling.

//

**R’s speech before ‘Loving Someone’ FULL! London, the O2 18/12/16**

**Video uploaded by salvation_inthe_secular_age, 20/12/16 to the1832source.tumblr.com**

[In the centre of the stage, R is illuminated in by blood red lights in the midst of darkness.]

“The world is pretty shit at the minute, there’s no denying that. But we’re not here to talk about politics tonight, we’re here for a release. A release from all the bullshit the world’s throwing at us. And we were in London on the day of the Brexit vote and in America for Trump’s election so we really fucking picked our timing this year.”

[He takes a swig from his wine bottle.]

“It’s not even about ‘Fuck Donald Trump’, though,” [He goes on to say, and the footage goes shaky from the rapturous screams it provokes. ] “That’s not the rhetoric that’s needed right now. And I know you’re angry, and look, we see loads of young, liberal, compassionate people every night. So this is, like, our world. This is the world we see, so when things go at odds with that, it’s really confusing and it makes you really fucking angry and cynical. And the thing is, I know it’s very sad to see all of these young voices of progression and change being drowned out by regressive ideals and bullshit. And it is about race and it is about gender and it is about sexuality.”

[The crowd ‘whoops’ in approval and agreement.]

“But what it’s also about, is that a lot of these people who voted against what we stand for- and trust me, I don’t stand for a lot but at this point we’re talking about basic human rights- are so disenfranchised by both sides of the political systems, that Trump or Brexit felt like the right thing to do. I was in with this group back home in Paris, and every Monday and Friday we’d all meet and they’d plan rallies and marches and stuff and I used to just sit in the back and laugh at them. I’d be thinking that I was hot shit because at least I knew that it was all pointless, right? That they’d never change anything because I had thought the world a horribly cruel and unforgiving place. But I was so, so wrong. Because just a few months ago, they got same-sex marriage passed, and now it’s law. All thanks to those meetings and marches and rallies. Thinking that there’s nothing you can do is the worst possible thing you can do- ‘Cause there _is_. 

“So we’re young, right? And we’re liberal and we’re compassionate and we’re muslim and we’re christian and we’re white and we’re black and we’re gay. If we are that, then it’s our duty to be compassionate and listen to everybody and listen to their concerns and try to educate them as best you can.”

[He reaches a hand out to the audience, and like plants growing towards the light, they all reach their hands up in unison, almost touching R’s.]

“And you are our people, and we love you so fucking much, you have no idea. This song is about loving someone.”

[The lights go dim and the crowd explodes in a cacophony of jubilant shouts as the opening chords start to play.]

//

“ _You should be loving someone. Oh, oh, loving someone. Yeah, you should be loving someone. Yeah you should be…”_

“ _I never did understand the duality of art and reality. Living life and treating it as such- there's a certain disconnect to touch that cajoles at the artist with comfort and abandon_ ,” Grantaire says as he recites the poem that acts as a bridge, as the people surrounding him hold their collective breaths. “Between the spires and the rolling roofs of the white city  
that orange Parisian light cast only one, singular shadow. For you are not beside but within me.”

“ _And I think I should be loving someone! Oh, oh loving someone! Yeah, you should be loving someone!_ ” The crowd sings, joyous and bright. 

//

For the best part of the past two years, Enjolras has watched as Grantaire’s fame skyrocketed. He listened to all the radio interviews on his commute to work, worked through the bitterness in his stomach over the rumours of Grantaire with a thousand other celebrities, sat with his knees hugged tight to his chest as he watched the footage of him having a breakdown on stage. 

He’s watched countless shaky footage of the band with muffled audio, and yet. 

Nothing quite compares to the real thing. Nothing could have prepared him for the tangibility of Grantaire, right there, in front of him, singing his heart out. Enjolras definitely wasn’t the weight of his nerves to come crashing down when Grantaire announces “Alright guys, this is our last song for the night.”

Everyone ‘aww’s, and at that it’s the Grantaire Enjolras knows, the one he remembers, who’s got a sly grin on his face and is rolling his eyes fondly. 

“What, have you never been to concert before? Here’s what’s going to happen, we’re gonna play this song, walk off, then you go fucking mental, and we come back out. Deal?”

The army of fans surrounding them nearly bring the house down with their shouts of agreement, and it dissolves into the chorus humming out from the back-up singers on stage. 

“ _Well I know when you’re around ‘cause I know the sound, I know the sound of your heart._ ”

This was, in truth, the first of Grantaire’s songs that Enjolras had ever listened to. He’d grabbed a coffee in the café across from his building, and began tapping his fingers out to rhythm on the counter as he waited for his coffee. By the time he’d opened his laptop and was sitting comfortably at a table, his head was almost bopping along to it. His coffee was halfway to his mouth when the radio host’s voice drifted over the ending chorus. 

“...That was of course the brand new debut of the 1832’s _The Sound,_ live here on Radio 1. And we’ve got the band’s very own lead singer, R, here with us. How’re you doing, mate?”

Around that time was when he choked on his coffee.

“I’m pretty good, all things considered, man,” R said, chuckling. (And Enjolras could almost see him, could almost trace the line of his crooked grin that he’d be wearing right now.)

That was also the first time he had heard Grantaire’s voice in two years. He couldn’t pinpoint why, exactly, it felt like a punch to the stomach. The song continues to play softly in the background amidst their conversation.

“Well you just heard your new song’s first air play, that must be quite nice.”

“It feels fucking fantastic, to be honest with you.” Grantaire and the interviewer are laughing them, and oh my god it’s been so long since he’d heard Grantaire _laugh_.

“So that was ‘ _The Sound_ ’ from the new album, ‘ _I like it when you sleep for you are so beautiful, yet so unaware of it_ ’.”

“That’s such a pretentious title.”

“You picked it, mate.”

Grantaire laughs. Again. “I did. It makes sense, I guess, because I’m so pretentious.”

“ _And you say I'm such a cliche, I can't see the difference in it either way. And we left things to protect my mental health, but you call me when you're bored and you're playing with yourself._ ” 

“Is there any difference between this album and your debut?”

“Yeah definitely,” Grantaire answered, voice deep and husky, but he speaks almost like a melody line and god, Enjolras has missed it. “Our first album was shit. This one is much better.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because… You know, the first album, half of it was almost like a ‘best of’ compilation, songs we’ve had sitting around for years. The other half was the direct product of heartbreak. And feelings are ugly things, so with the second album, time has passed and we were able to look back on those things- and all the new stuff that touring with the first album brought- with a bit more… maturity, I guess? Which meant that in the studio we could wrangle them into something not as raw.”

“ _You're so conceited- I said "I love you”. What does it matter if I lie to you? I don't regret it but I'm glad that we're through. So don't you tell me that you 'just don't get it', ‘cause I know you do._ ”

 

“So have you lost some of the emotional depth that you had in the first album?”

“No, definitely not. If it’s not bearing some part of my soul, it probably wasn’t written by me. I just think with this album, you’re still getting that rawness, but it’s not going to dilute the song. So now we have really good tunes with the same deep lyrics, they just sound better. With the first album, the lyrics set the tone, and if you keep up that way it can kind of get… Boring, I guess. And depressing as hell.”

“You have some songs that are really sad that still have quite upbeat melodies, though.”

“Do I?”

“Yeah! ‘ _Pressure_ ’?”

“Oh, true! Yeah, ‘ _Pressure_ ’’s funny, actually, because I had these lyrics stuck in my head for ages and I could never really figure out where to put them. They were written in a really rough time for me- my dad had just OD’d and to be honest I was nearly on the same path- but for some reason the only melody I could come up with was something real boppy. The only lyrics I had at the time were ‘ _and my broken veins say that if my heart stops beating, we’ll bleed the same way_ ’. Eventually I just cracked and wrote it anyways and I’m quite proud of it now, but yeah. That was kind of my first experience with not letting the demeanor of the song dictate it’s sound.”

“Is that one of the few rare gems not written for your unrequited lover?”

“Yep. That’s it. That’s the one.”

“Is that honestly the only one?”

“God no, man. Well. Most of them are written about my friends back in Paris, of which he was kind of the ring leader, so. Kind of yes but also no.”

“...It was a he? Are you coming out? Are you gay?”

“I was never _in_ , but yeah. I’m bisexual. As in, I like girls and guys. And non-binary pals. Didn’t you just hear me sing about how “ _she said ‘I thought that you were straight but now I’m wondering’_ ”?”

It’s not until a barista comes over to ask Enjolras if he’s alright that he realises how hard he’s gripping the table, knuckles white. And that his coffee is stone cold. And that he’s an idiot who misses Grantaire more than he can bear.

//

While Joly is fumbling for his inhaler, and Combeferre is frowning up at the now-shaking pillars holding the upper tiered seating, the rest of the Stadium are stomping their feet and chanting ‘ _Encore! Encore! Encore!_ ”

The entire place is thrumming alive, people at their holiest, soaked in sweat and desperate for one more song. 

In a matter of seconds the house lights have gone down again, and that familiar black and white scheme lights up the stage. 

Grantaire walks out last, as always, and picks up the microphone. 

And the stadium is silent.

And unaccompanied, he begins to sing. “ _And I swear, there’s a ghost on this island...._ ”

The girls to Enjolras’s left gasps, her body shaking with silent tears as the crowd breaks out into ear-shattering screams. This is the song they never play. The song Grantaire swore up and down he would _never play_ because it was too much. Too raw. Too real. 

This is ‘ _Antichrist_ ’.

“ _And my wife inquired of understanding-But of course my dear, you can't. She said, "How can I relate to somebody who doesn’t speak?" I feel like I'm just treading water. Is it the same for you?_ ”

Enjolras has never seen Grantaire like this. Not in any of the videos, or the shaky, blurred footage or any interview. He’s almost bent over, hand clutched to his chest and black hair tumbling into his eyes. He’s broken himself open, just for them. Enjolras lets out a breath, and beside him he hears someone take in an unsteady one. 

He turns and finds Eponine, arms crossed and face wrought with emotion- pride, love, but also a sadness. So deep in her eyes Enjolras wonders if anyone would ever be able to reach it. And then he sees where her eyes are _looking_ , at Marius and Cosette wrapped around each other easily, and when he turns back her eyes are fixed on his. 

“Looks like Grantaire’s specialty is writing about the despondent lover,” is all she says, a quick quirk of the lips and her mask is back up. 

“ _Well he comes and he goes, so capricious. And his work appears so rushed. Well I love the house that we live in, and I love you all too much._ ” He holds the microphone out, a silent invitation, and the fans accept readily. “ _Is it the same for you?_ ” The yell out, nearly three years of waiting to sing this, with them, finally arrived. 

It’s then that Babet, Claquesous and Montparnasse join him with their instruments, and the audience with their voice, and there is nothing more breathtaking then hearing 81,000 people singing “ _Blood is on your tongue as well as your hands, archaic and content you just wash them off._ ” 

Even when it hurts.

_Especially_ when it hurts.

//

**Excerpt of an article bookmarked to julien_enjolras55@gmail.com**

**An interview with Hotpress’s band of the year frontman R, from the 1832**

**Hotpress:** Final question- Why don’t you ever play ‘ _Antichrist_ ’?

**R:** It’s too… I don’t know what to tell you. It wasn’t written solely about me, is the first thing. It was written about me and my best friend at a time in my life when I was dealing with a really bad dependency on drink, my father was battling a heroin addiction he lost, I was hopelessly in love with a person who wouldn’t give me the time of day and the only thing I had where these one a.m chats with my best friend when we would both pour our souls out to each other. So it’s still too real for me. It opens up a lot of shit for me. Hopefully though one day I’ll be in a position where I’m happy enough to go there and know I can come back unscathed.

**Hotpress:** You talk a lot about ‘that person’. 

**R:** Yeah. I guess the music and stuff- it’s all them.

**Hot Press:** And do they love you back?

**R:** Isn’t this about the music?

**Hot Press:** I thought they were the music.

**R:** I guess you’re right.

 

//

Grantaire sighs happily into the microphone, looking out at all the snap-happy camera flashes and ever-moving sea of people before him. 

“Paris, you have been amazing.” He pauses as a cheer resounds. “And you have given me the best night of my life, so thank you. But you- every single one of you, and whoever is going to be watching this when you post these videos on the internet when you go- every single one of you have allowed us to grow, and make the music that we love and share it with you. I can never comprehend to you how much that means, and how grateful we are for you. I love you so fucking much.”

At the barricade right before the stage he see’s faces looking up at him, some are crying others are smiling and some have years worth of emotion playing out. He understands. He’s been waiting just as long as they have for this.

“Our first album, ‘ _The 1832_ ’, is based in a frustration of being stuck in the same place. ‘ _I like it when you sleep for you are so beautiful yet so unaware of it_ ’ means that all things must pass. Even bad times, even the impossibly black days. Even the heartbreak, and the people who you think you’re never going to stop loving. Even fixtures in your life- places and friends and bars. And they do pass, I promise. In a world that moves this fast, everything is in a constant state of change. They’ll work themselves out to become something different, something better. But the past is like a car wreck you nearly break your neck trying to see, ‘cause without it, I guess the future’s history. This is _‘Paris’_.

Behind him, the film reel they’d just finished today begins to play itself out as Claquesous works wonders on his keyboard. 

‘ _Paris_ ’ is one of the last songs he’d written for their second album. On his last day in Paris after seeing Les Amis for the last time, he’d wandered about with Eponine, revisiting all their old haunts. It’s a song he’s hidden away for a long time, unsure how it will do in the light because there’s no real filter to it, it’s just raw emotion.

“ _Hyper-politicized sexual trysts- "Oh, I think my boyfriend's a nihilist.” As I said "Hey kids! We're all just the same, what a shame", and oh, how I’d love to go to Paris again._ ”

And the video is nothing special, either. It’s simple, it’s him walking around his old joints, places he knew like the back of his hand that he’s lost his grip on. The bar that they used to play at every Saturday night, empty with changed decor, and no Bahorel working the bar. His old dance studio has been renovated and redecorated, bought under someone else’s name. “ _Keeping a tab on my health, man you're putting me up on a shelf. “Well I'll believe you're clean, but only by seeing your face for myself.”_ ”

He discovers some of his places have disappeared since he had left. His apartment, cold and draughty and empty and untouched for nearly three years. The printing shop, where he printed flyers for the Amis and where a large portion of his interactions with Enjolras have taken place, is still there, offering student discounts now which Grantaire really could’ve used back then.

“ _And then she pointed at the bag of her dreams in a well posh magazine. I said "I'm done, babe I'm out of the scene.” And how I’d love to go to Paris again._ ”

But amidst all that change, there’s one fixed point, always.

Café Musain. 37, Rue de Saint Jacques.

“ _Oh how I'd love to go to Paris, to Paris again. And how I'd love to go to Paris again_.”

It ends with him walking in, sitting down in his same seat, and staring up at the empty chairs at empty tables that will still hold all his friends in a matter of hours. He looks up at the the table that Enjolras is so fond of standing on, and the camera focuses on his wistful countenance, his face, full of equal amounts of hope and despair. It had been strange to see it so empty, so listless without Les Amis there. He only gives himself a few seconds to dwell on it, not wanting to burst into tears on camera, before turning and walking out the door, making his way to the stadium, and leaving the Café far behind.

//

“We’re adding a song- Technical people, we’re adding a song. Just one.”

He can’t let it go. He can’t let _this_ go, these people who have sung with him for every single word and let him lay his soul bare and not question it. 

“Turn the lights on,” He’s saying. “I can’t see for shit.” Offstage, Jamie is signing frantically, and Grantaire waves him off. “It’s fine, calm down. We’ll just do it with the base, Babet’s set.”

He crouches down as the other’s prepare their instruments and examines the crowd before him. “This is fucking mental. Playing songs that you wrote in your bedroom, in _here_ , is a fucking trip. And the fact that we’re all here, together- Look, listen, I don’t want to be pretentious. I don’t mean to talk shit but what I’m saying is, is that you’re all here to see us, right? That’s why you’re here. So we’re all here for the same reason, and that doesn’t happen a lot. We’re hardly ever in a room with so many like-minded people. And what I would love for you, is to be here, right now. Not before or after. Not on your phones recording this for the future. I just want us all to be together. Without being grumpy or patronizing, let’s just do one song, the _last_ song where it’s just us. If we can collectively share this experience, I promise you, it will be better than any video you take could ever replicate.”

He watches as flashes go off and phone screens shut off and smiles. 

“I just want to say that being here, with you, tonight, is something I never thought would happen. I didn’t even think I would make it to the 27’s club. I reckoned if I didn’t die from drinking I’d die from the heartache of loving someone who hated me. If you’ve ever experienced that, you’ll know how much it hurts. But you’ll also come to know how great it will feel to let the sun shine on your face when you finally accept that they are not your world, nor your sun, and that you are worth more than any heartbreak a person will cause you. And until then, you have songs like these to help you through. Let’s do ‘ _fallingforyou_ ’.”

//

“ _What time you coming out? We started losing light. I'll never make it right if you don't want me around,_ ” Grantaire sings, crooning lowly like something from a Hallmark commercial. Around him, people are swept up in embraces with their significant others, and when he chances a look out of the corner of his eye he can see Combeferre approach Eponine tentatively, and slow smiles spread across their faces as they speak, enraptured. 

Enjolras has Grantaire, singing on the stage and taking his breath away and Enjolras _knows_. Knows he is gone, knows the feeling of warmth in his chest hadn’t been pent up arguments, it had been the beginnings of love you absolute moron. 

“ _Don't you see me? I think I'm falling, I'm falling for you. Don't you need me? I, I think I'm falling, I'm falling for you._ ”

Christ, he’s had such a battle with himself, with Grantaire, all these years, all because he was too scared to admit he could love anything but changing the world with his undiluted passion. All because he couldn’t admit, not even to himself, not even during the two a.m interview binges he was so fond of, that was utterly, completely, hook, line and sinker for Grantaire. 

“ _According to your heart, my place is not deliberate. And the feeling of your arms… I don’t want to be your friend, I want to kiss your neck._ ”

He swallows the lump in his throat and tries to ignore his pounding heart as Grantaire sings, illuminated only by a singular light on stage. His mind betrays him and takes him back three years, back to the perfect push and pull of their lips, their shared breaths and the shared cigarette afterwards. The effect Grantaire had on Enjolras like no one before. As if he alone had been able to bend down and crack open Enjolras’s chest, allowing his breath to breeze by Enjolras’s heart long enough to remind him that he’s still alive, and he is a person, and that is significance in itself no matter what. That changing the world does not define him. 

“ _And on this night, in this light, I think I’m falling, I’m falling for you. Maybe you’ll change your mind._ ” 

 

//

The second he steps off the stage, dripped in sweat and still thrumming with the electric energy from outside, Montparnasse is pushing him towards the green room to meet fans, insisting that he has to, because Stade de France is a big fucking deal, R, and it’s really not that much to ask to take a few pictures with the people that keep them in business.

Reporters and photographers are swarming backstage, bombarding him with questions and comments and requests. It takes a raised brow from Claquesous to sigh and accept, postponing his long-awaited nap until after. 

Not that he doesn’t want to meet fans, he’s just fucking _exhausted_. They’ve been on the go nearly every day for the past six months, and concerts are draining and he just wants to sleep. He wants to sleep and forget about what he sung and the fact that Les Amis are probably sleeping, as well. And that Enjolras is probably up, making some poor commenters on a news article cry, no less than thirty minutes away. 

Someone asks him what product he uses in his hair. Another asks if the rumours about him and Michael Fassbender are true. He answers neither, and settles for being pushed into the green room by Babet with little to no grace. 

“We’ll see you at the afterparty,” is all Montparnasse say when Grantaire looks back them before shutting the door in his face.

It takes him five seconds of staring at the door in confusion and someone clearing their throat for him to realise he’s not alone. 

And that’s when he turns around to see Les Amis, each and everyone of them, standing in the middle of the room, holding their breaths and staring at him intently. 

Grantaire’s heart is in freefall as he takes in their faces, all the same but a year older and he tries to comprehend what kind of trip he’s one. His mouth opens and then shuts as dread fills his stomach, with the terrifying realisation that-

Enjolras. 

Standing to the right, in all his otherworldly glory. He heard _everything_.

Before he can dissolve into a mess of nerves and panic attacks, Eponine surges forward and hugs him tight around his middle. “I _missed_ you,” She whispers, and that’s when he breaks, when he lets out a breath he’s been holding for three years and collapses in her arms and holds her, squeezing. A small sob escapes his mouth as the others descend on him, until he’s engulfed in a group hug of epic proportions. 

“I missed you, too,” He whispers quietly, just for her. The kiss he presses to her temple promises more later, and he thinks back to the bag he has stashed away somewhere on the bus filled with strange memorabilia he picked up from all over the place when it reminded him of her. 

“You should have called more,” someone- Courfeyrac- says, their voice weepy. 

“I know. I know. I’m sorry, guys. I just-”

“It’s okay,” Jehan, that wonderful person, says. Eponine untangles herself from him, and Jehan cups Grantaire’s cheeks and brings him down to place a kiss on both of them. “You owe us nothing. Except maybe a few postcards.”

“I picked up loads,” He replies, voice wobbly but light with laughter. “Anytime I saw one of those arty ones that you said you liked to write poetry on the back of because of the aesthetic value.”

When Jehan beams at him, it’s like the last three years have vanished. 

He doesn’t know exactly how long passes as he catches up with his friends. Bahorel punches him lightly on the shoulder before wrapping him in a bear hug, and telling him how his new boxing partner doesn’t have anything on Grantaire. Feuilly says ‘fuck you’ to that and then smiles at Grantaire, before informing him that the Montmartre art scene has missed all his scathing remarks. Joly checks his vitals and has multiple panics over whether or not Grantaire contracted leprosy, before hugging him tight when he is deemed his safe. All the while Bossuet grinned and told him how boring drunken escapades have become without him. 

“You deserve every bit of success you’ve got,” Musichetta tells him as they embrace, wiping away a stray tear that leaks down his face before doing the same to his own. 

Courfeyrac hugs him for ten minutes straight as Combeferre looks on fondly. “We’ve missed you, R,” he tells him. “I’ve had no one to act as a sounding board for my ‘moth fact of the month’ without you.”

He laughs wetly as he pats Courf’s back. “We’ve got a lot of time to catch up, don’t worry. I’ve missed my moth fact of the month while on the road.”

There’s a knock on the door which breaks the perfect little bubble they’d created and Montparnasse ducks his head around. “We’re headed to the afterparty now. Get cleaned up and meet us there.”

“I have an idea,” Courfeyrac announces, detaching himself from Grantaire’s torso. “How about your lovely bandmates escort us to the party and someone stay here with R while he gets cleaned up?”

The rest of the Amis agree in unison. “Perfect! Enjolras, you stay, would you?” 

Enjolras’s eyes widen, and he begins to shake his head. “Courf, no-”  
“Oh, come on, Enj,” He pouts as he puts on his coat. “You don’t want to leave Grantaire by himself, like Billy no mates, would you?”

This time, it’s Grantaire that objects. “But-”

“Okay, bye R, see you then,” Montparnasse says loudly as the Amis file out, before shutting it closed with a resounding click.

Enjolras hadn’t moved from his place in the centre of the room. They stand, staring at each other and frozen in their places.

“I missed you.”

Until that. 

Grantaire recoils as if he’s been shot. “You _what_?”

“Miss you. I- Grantaire, christ. I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” he answers, almost on autopilot. “We don’t have to do this- whatever _this_ is- it’s not obligatory. We don’t have to talk about this.”

“But I want to.” Enjolras is looking at him funny, and chewing on his bottom lip. His hands are red as he wrings them together. 

“Look, whatever lecture you want to give me about non-consensual song writing or whatever, I’m really not in the mood to hear.”

“No, not about that, about- You love me.”

Grantaire swallows hard. “Nice of you to finally notice.”

“I’ve been such an idiot, Grantaire. I’m such an absolute mess and I know that you’ve moved on, and that’s great- really, I’m happy for you. But I can’t deny my feelings for you, and I need you to know that I’m sorry for being so horrible to you. And… And I love you.”

He blinks. 

He takes a breath in. 

His mind is screaming but his body is refusing to cooperate, until his mouth eventually starts to work and he manages to spit a mangled “ _What_?” out.

Enjolras chews his lip again- and seriously, he needs to stop doing that because they’re all shiny and red now and that’s certainly not helping the situation at hand. “I love you?” He chances a glance at Grantaire and rushes to say “I know it’s really bad timing and that this is probably the last thing you want to hear right now but it’s true and those songs-”

“Those _songs_. Enjolras, half the bloody reason I wrote those songs is because when I told you I loved you, you wanted to act like it was a figment of my imagination! You broke my fucking heart!”

“R, please, forgive me-”

“ _YOU HAVEN’T EVEN SAID SORRY!_ ” He explodes, words harsh and loud and ricocheting off the walls. His final truth, laid bare, ripped from stomach. “What’s to stop me from telling you what you said to me then? What’s to stop me from telling you no, from informing you that your feelings aren’t real? Do you realise how shitty that was? I’m not going to do that to you, Enjolras, because when someone tells you how they feel it’s not your place to tell them that their emotions aren’t valid. You don’t get to decide what other people feel.”

“I’m sorry, Grantaire. You will never know how much I regret what I said.” His words are soft, a stark contrast to Grantaire’s, but his eyes hold that sincere and vulnerable look that have the same effect on him as it did when they first met. “There’s no excuse for it, I know. I’m sorry. I wish I could do more. If I could do anything that would fix it, I’d do it in a heartbeat.”

He lets out a shuddery breath and relaxes his shoulders, scrubbing a hand over his too-tired face. “How long?” He asks warily.

“Um. Since ‘ _fallingforyou_ ’?”

Grantaire’s head whips up. “You’ve known for half a bloody _hour_?”

“Not exactly,” Enjolras answers, defensive. “Probably since you came back that last time and visited us at the Café. I just… didn’t realise it.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“I know.”

“You could have picked up the phone at least _once_ when you were on the verge of your emotional breakthrough.”

“You hadn’t talked to any of us since you left!” He replies haughtily. “Excuse me for thinking you wanted the space.”

Grantaire throws his eyes to heaven and asks whatever God their is for patience. “And excuse _me_ for not wanting any cruel reminders of the man that I loved.”

Enjolras deflates. “I’m an idiot.”

“I know,” he responds, lips quirked into a smile.

“I still do want to make it up to you, R,” Enjolras says. “Anything you want, it’s yours.”

Grantaire considers. He thinks of all the time turning he’s done tonight, thinks of his friends all at the afterparty, thinks of the city that’s ben calling his name since he landed this morning. “I want to go to Paris.”

//

There’s nothing like Paris at 1 a.m, that much Grantaire knows. He’s at his most holiest like this, remnants of the concert still lingering in him, sweat cooling on his brow as the cold night air hits and the city is lit up in soft glow of the streetlamps.

They’re walking through the arch of the Eiffel Tower in relative silence until Enjolras breaks it. “Why didn’t you say anything? I understand not talking to me, but Eponine said even she wasn’t talking much with you.”

He rubs a hand over his face, really not in the mood to hash out this particular argument. “You _know_ why.”

His heart catches in his throat. “Why, R?”

 

“Because I love you!” He snaps, stopping to face him. “Because I’ve loved since I met you and when I told you, you threw it back in my face. So I went and I wrote songs about it and people _liked_ them and then I get radio silence from you? How the fuck was that meant to make me feel? And then I go and I write nearly a whole album for you that fuckin’ tops the charts and still nothing. I have to pour my heart out every time I get on stage, and I get nothing back so I feel _empty_. And then I come back and you ask me if I fucking _meant it_? The same guy I sing about every night? It was fucking hard, okay. And I couldn’t deal with so I left again and I told Eponine I needed this time to sort my head out and.” He exhales a breath. “And now I’m here, with you, under the fucking _Eiffel Tower_ at one a.m.”

Enjolras is staring at him, open and vulnerable, and there’s a question he’s asking in his eyes and Grantaire’s not sure he wants the translation to it. He feels on the brink of tears. “I’m not the same guy as I was when I left. You’ve all moved on and made lives for yourselves and I’m. I’m happy where I am but I don’t _fit_ anywhere.”

It hadn’t occurred to him just how close they were until Enjolras’s breath is nearly mingling with his. “I have room,” He says quietly, looking up at Grantaire’s ducked face. 

Grantaire raises an eyebrow. “Since when?”

“Since you released ‘ _the 102_ ’.”

“No fucking _way_ you heard that-”

He doesn’t get to finish that sentence, unfortunately, because Enjolras’s lips have crashed in his, fitting perfectly, and he can’t really bring himself to care anymore.

//

‘ _the 102_ ’ is the first song Grantaire ever writes about Enjolras. A few months ago, someone had dug up old footage of him singing it at one of his first gigs in a tiny café downtown. For the kicks Grantaire decided to just realise the one, shitty studio version he had of it, for slightly better audio.

‘ _I like the way that your face looks when I’m arguing with you. And so when, when we all grow old, I hope this song will remind you that I’m not half as bad as what you’ve been told._ ’

He writes the night of his first Les Amis de l’ABC meeting, entirely enraptured with this hopeless, gorgeous idealist, when Enjolras finally lets him go at his apartment block because he’d felt the need to argue with him the entire way home. 

‘ _And that’s why we're here. We’re at the common again. I’ve been pouring my heart out towards your optimistic grin… But on this shirt I found your smell. And I just sat there for ages, contemplating what to do with myself._ ’

//

In the moonlight-drench bedroom, Grantaire is tracing the columns of Enjolras’s spine.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t find a way to tell how I feel like a normal person,” He says quietly. “You know it’s all for you, right? Well, most of it.”

Enjolras smiles easily. “I figured. ‘ _He’s got a heart made of stone but he never gets cold because the sun’s always hot on his back._ ’”

He laughs gently, not wanting to disturb the peace they’ve created for themselves. “I still can’t believe you listened to it.”

“I know both the albums inside and out, by this point.”

“Since when?”

“I heard ‘ _The sound_ ’ on the radio when it first came out. And then I went home and listened to the first album, and then…” he trails off, shrugging. “I don’t know what it was. I couldn’t stop. It made me sad, though. Listening to it. Because I knew it was about me most of the time.”

Grantaire presses a kiss to his exposed shoulder. “It’s okay. All I know are sad songs anyways.”

Enjolras regards him thoughtfully. “Maybe you could write some happy ones this time.”

“You know, I think I might just be able to,” he grins, his words becoming heavy with sleep, and eyes fluttering closed.

“Grantaire?” Enjolras whispers before he’s lost him to the land of nod.

“Mm?”

“I love you, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> This took me about 3 months to write, and I hope that you guys enjoy it as much as I loved writing it. If anyone would like the playlist to this fic, pm me on tumblr or shoot me a message here! 
> 
> [ come cry with me on tumblr](http://war-boyfriends.tumblr.com/)


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